Bells sounded to announce that the House was in session and everyone went swiftly to his place. The official notary started reading something, gabbling in a low voice. Then Rakovszky, the vice-chairman, took the stand.
Rakovszky was heard in dead silence. He said that the session had been called to receive the King’s message. General Nyiri, the plenipotentiary Royal Commissioner, had announced that he would expect the people’s elected representatives to attend him at eleven o’clock at the royal palace, when he would read out the royal decree dissolving Parliament. Rakovszky now added his own remarks to the official statement, raising fine points of the legality of such a procedure. It seemed that the royal message was not to be handed to him by the Minister-President but by two army officers, and that it would be in a sealed envelope. Since, he said, it was customary for such documents to be presented to the House by the Minister-President, he advised that the Parliament should not accept the envelope but that it should be handed back at once to the appointed officers. This was the formula decided on by the party leaders at the previous evening’s meeting. It was a revolutionary decision because it would mean that, after all the fuss, nothing would have happened. It would be a fact that Parliament had been called into session … but dissolved? No one would have any knowledge of that, either officially or legally. Those unfamiliar with parliamentary procedure were somewhat bemused by this solution and it took a few moments for Rakovszky’s words to sink in. However, so strong was the feeling that they must act in strict accordance with the law, and that this only was important, that general approval was soon given to the proposal.
The chairman of the assembly now quickly suggested that the house should meet again two days later, on 21 February. Everyone knew that this would never happen, for the army had already been ordered to occupy the Parliament building and at that moment the soldiers were pouring into the ground floor and were already coming up the stairs that led to the chamber. This was disregarded, for everyone felt that they must stand on their own legal rights and proceed accordingly. At this point one of the sergeants-at-arms rushed in and shouted: ‘They’re coming! They’re already in the corridor!’
At once there was a general uproar, the chairman rose, closed the session and hurried off the platform. Everyone made for the exits, jostling each other in their hurry to get away.
Then through the lower door a stout uniformed officer stalked in. It was Colonel Fabritius. All those heading for that exit turned and rushed towards whatever other escape from the chamber they could find. As they did so the colonel mounted the podium and read out the royal decree of dissolution, but the only people to hear him were the journalists in the press gallery. As soon as he had finished the chamber was occupied by armed soldiers.
In the corridors the fleeing members found that soldiers had been posted everywhere. They were all from the National Guard of Budapest. It was a tragic and shameful sight — an armed military occupation of Parliament, the ancient citadel of Hungary’s independence. The soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder facing the entrances to the chamber, like a dark wall shutting out even the grey morning light from the windows behind them.
Balint, who scorned the idea of running away, was one of the last to leave the chamber. He walked slowly and sadly towards the main stairway but stopped when Bela Varju came running towards him.
‘They’ve closed the entrance. No one can get out that way!’ he called from a distance.
‘Perhaps we can go through the common rooms?’ suggested Abady, and together they quickly disappeared through one of the doors. Once inside Balint glanced back and saw that they had only just been in time, for he could already see the backs of soldiers lined up outside the wide glass doors through which they had just slipped.
Balint was quicker than Varju, who was now somewhat out of breath. He turned at the exit on the other side of the room and, for the first time seeing the comic side of it all, called back: ‘Hurry up, my friend, we don’t want to find our coats again in the Vienna prison-house!’
Balint’s train did not leave until two o’clock, so he went first to lunch at the Casino. There the atmosphere was one of unrelieved gloom. One or two people were conferring in low tones, but they fell silent if anyone came near them. Even at the long communal table the events of that morning were hardly mentioned. Shoulders were shrugged but everyone kept their opinions to themselves. Fredi Wuelffenstein, normally so ebullient, never once talked of how his Hungarian blood was boiling. It was the realization that no one knew any longer what the future would bring that deadened everyone’s spirits. Secretly there were many who began to wonder if they had not been wrong in making those demands about the army and the laws which had brought them into direct confrontation with the monarch.
Laszlo Gyeroffy was travelling on the same train. Though Balint and he greeted one another and sat together in the same compartment, Balint sensed at once that the warmth had gone out of their friendship.
‘Are you going home to Kozard?’ enquired Balint.
‘No, I’m getting off at Varad,’ To ward off any further questioning from his cousin, Laszlo added: ‘I have some business there.’ Then he turned away and pretended to look out of the window.
Neither of them spoke again for some time. Laszlo was thinking about the Carnival season which had just ended. Once again he had been named as elotancos and there had been no diminution in his position in society. On the contrary this year he had reached the pinnacle of social success at the archducal ball when he had dined at the same table as the King of Bulgaria, opened the ball with the Queen and spent the entire evening surrounded by Imperial and Royal Highnesses and their Majesties themselves. Despite all this public glory Laszlo himself sensed that this year his prestige had been somehow diminished. He was no longer interested in his job as leading dancer, and he neglected it. During the picnic dances at the Casino he would sometimes disappear for an hour or more, going up to the gaming tables and more than once returning drunk, and angry that his assistant had sent a message asking for him.
He knew that he had been remiss, but even so he had resented it when, three days before, one of the town’s great hostesses had asked Niki Kollonich and Gyuri Warday, Imre’s younger brother, to organize her ball rather than he, the official elotancos. Accordingly he had thrown up the job, giving it out that he was obliged to return to Transylvania. This was the reason for his being on the same train as Balint. Of course, he reflected, it was just as well that he would no longer have to bear all those extra expenses. Neither could he continue to postpone settling the question of Fanny’s pearls. Somehow he had to find the money to redeem them, for he felt he could no longer bear the shame of being indebted to a woman. It was as bad as being kept!
As they sat face to face in the railway carriage, Balint was closely studying his cousin’s face. It had grown hard, with a bitter line to the mouth, and he had developed a vertical furrow where his eyebrows met. Laszlo’s eyes were both watery and inflamed and Balint knew at once that he must have been sitting up late and presumably gambling as heavily as before. Well, he thought, I’ll try and make him see reason. So, as tactfully as he could he introduced the subjects. Laszlo shrugged his shoulders and his replies were barely polite. This made Balint so angry that he began to say openly everything that was in his mind. His words were cruel and wounding. Finally, enraged, he said: ‘You’re quite mad! If you go on like this you’ll end up bankrupt and dishonoured!’